On The Way to Mayfield
by kei-angelus
Summary: This is my version of what was going on when Wilson took House to Mayfield in the end of Season 5. Written in House's point of view.


**Author's Note : Hello :) Really, I watched the 5th season in about a week that sometimes I forgot that it was originally aired for months. AND I managed to write another fanfic. This is big for me, really. **

**By the time I wrote this fic, I didn't know that the treatment was that bad, so...**

**Anyway, I'm still new and I really need any suggestion, so, please give a review :)**

**Disclaimer : House, M. D. belongs to David Shore &amp; FOX.**

"Wilson."

I really had to say anything. Anything to make him talk to me.

"Yeah?" he simply answer, his eyes never leaving the road.

"I…," I tried to start. "Am I really going to be better?"

He scoffed. "What? You're not sure now?" he threw some glances at me. "House, we've all talked about this. Cuddy thinks this is the best option, too. I just—"

_You just want me to get better._

"You just think that I would kill people if I don't go there," I said instead.

Wilson rolled his eyes in disbelief before threw another glance at me and lost his words.

"No. I…," he hesitated. And after a second of thinking, he scoffed again. "You're unbelievable, House."

"You know that," I secretly smirked. Then it was silent again. And I was somehow desperate to make some conversation. Because I was actually afraid. I could imagine how boring my life would be in there. And I wouldn't have Wilson to annoy. I couldn't go to his office just to mock him. I couldn't steal his meals. I couldn't ask him to come to my apartment—or wait for him to knock on my door everytime something bad happened—or just barge in to his if I wanted. I would miss the movie nights.

I would _miss_ him.

"I'm sorry," I suddenly said, never sure where the words came from. I could see a change in his eyes. He looked at me for a long second before he cleared his throat and said, "Apology accepted."

"What? You didn't ask what was that for?"

"Oh. So you want me to ask? Okay, then wh—"

"Well, I said sorry," I snapped, trying to be my usual sarcastic self. "Shouldn't we celebrate?"

He just gave me a laugh for an answer. "I forgive you."

I turned to him and let my eyes stared at him for too long until I said, "Thank you."

And it was silent again, for barely two minutes, and I could already felt the urge to say something else. Because I would really miss him. Maybe I would even miss his voice.

"What?" he suddenly said after another minute.

"What do you mean,'what'?"

"You clearly need to get it out."

"What?" _That I'll miss you?_

"Oh, I don't know. Anything that has been hanging in your mind since I started the engine."

_Damn_.

"Well, fine, then," he ended the conversation as a reply of my staring.

But I got impatient again in the first _damn_ minute of silence.

"_See_?" Wilson squawked. "Can't you really just spit it out, House?"

"What?" I raised my voice.

"That," he almost pointed his finger at me. "_That_, House." I was just innocently—if I could ever do something innocently, stared at him again. "You are clearly annoyed. You are feeling insecure. What is it?"

I turned away, pretending to look at the road. But when a sign showed that Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital was only twenty miles ahead of us, I almost wanted to stop the car.

"I…," I started again.

_I'll miss you._

"…don't want to talk about it."

It was silent again until Wilson stopped the car and I was looking at him in disbelief. We just stared at each other for a few seconds. I knew he was just waiting for me to say it.

I was the one who looked away first. But then I finally said it, looking down.

"I think I'll miss you."

When I looked at him again, his face showed disbelief, just like when I had said that I had slept with Cuddy, which apparently had never even happened. But this time, I just really didn't know how he would react.

And after a minute of staring contest, he chuckled. "House, is that what you really wanted to say to me?"

"Yes."

"And you're not hallucinating or anything?"

"No."

"No lying this time?"

"No."

He let out another chuckle. "I'll miss you too, Greg," he said. "I think I'll miss you annoying me at my own office. And I'll miss you stealing my food. And I'll miss you banging on my apartment door in the middle of the night. And I'll miss our movie nights."

And while I just stared at him—_again_, he continued, "But don't worry. You know I still can visit once you get better, right? I might bring you something to read, maybe some medical journal. And I think they will allow you to make some phone calls once in a while, you know, in case you really feel the urge to annoy me. Just…," he hesitated. "Just do this for me and get better."

And I smirked to end the fourth staring contest in the last thirty minutes.

We then spent the remaining trip in silent. A comfortable silent of knowing that this friendship wouldn't end as soon as I stepped inside the hospital, and that we would still have each other once I stepped out of it.

And when we arrived and the car stopped, Wilson sighed. "House, I forgive you for everything you did. I know it's never easy, but I somehow know that it was your way to mark your territory, to really admit that this messed-up-so-called-friendship really does exist. And I don't want it to end, too."

And he wouldn't know how relieved I was to hear that. I just nodded in response, before I opened the door and took my suitcase. I let him keep my phone, my pager, my watch that Kutner had given me, my wallet, and the things they wouldn't let me use inside the facility.

We took our last glance at each other that I almost expected him to hug me, but then I took my steps to the front door where four people was waiting for me. Before they close the door, I looked back at him again, just to see his failed attempt to give me an encouraging smile.

I'll _surely_ miss you, Wilson.


End file.
